


everything carries me to you

by katachresis



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Recovery, Romance, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Therapy, WELL NOT EXACTLY BUT, a little bit of religious imagery & symbolism, a teeny hint of connor wanting to self-harm?, and he will let you know—passive-aggressively, characters resolving their emotional issues in a healthy way, connor has Opinions™ on Bad Fashion, he doesn't want to dodge when he thinks north's gonna punch him, north wears fugly ass clothes bc fuck cabbage and his "sexy" clothes, uhhhhh for all the folks that died on jericho (rip in pieces), what a surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:43:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17506229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katachresis/pseuds/katachresis
Summary: He falls in love twice.





	everything carries me to you

**Author's Note:**

> everything carries me to you,  
> as if everything that exists,  
> aromas, light, metals,  
> were little boats  
> that sail  
> toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
> 
> \- _If You Forget Me,_ Pablo Neruda

He falls in love twice.

* * *

The first time, it is like an explosion—it happens all at once, uncontrollable and quick-burning. They have just met, and the world is ending twice over.

It is an empty-eyed hunting hound, a soulless killing machine at the beck and call of its masters; Markus is the warm and gentle light of salvation.

Under Markus’s gentle, coaxing words, Connor’s leash and cage both shatter and dissolve like ashes. For the first time, _he_ learns to _breathe_. His world has just ended, and he has never been more glad for the utter destruction of everything he has ever known.

For one brilliant, shining moment, they watch each other breathlessly. Connor has already been consumed by the fire of passion. Markus is a star, a supernova, radiant and divine, and Connor _burns_ with adoration for this man who bore him to salvation and freedom.

The sound of helicopter blades cutting through the air pierces the reverent silence lingering in the heated space between their bodies, and the peace of the moment splinters.

Ice washes through Connor’s veins, freezing him in place as he remembers. The FBI—Captain Fowler had said that they were going to take over the case. They would’ve had access to the same evidence that Connor had had access to.

“They’re going to attack Jericho…” Connor breathes out, horrified. His thirium pump—his heart—squirms uncomfortably beneath his chassis like a guilty animal. He already knows this will end in nothing but tragedy, and it will be _his_ fault, but still, he foolishly hopes that Markus will not abhor him for this sin, the greatest of all the sins he has committed in his short, violent life.

Markus’s handsome face twists, and he barks, “What?” For all his advanced social protocols and state-of-the-art integration module, Connor cannot decipher what ugly emotion is it that has crept like poison between them. Is it anger? Is it _hatred?_

Connor prays it isn’t hatred, even though he deserves it. ( _It is_ , an insidious voice that sounds like Amanda hisses in his head. _How could he possibly not hate you, when you have brought nothing but ruin and suffering to him and his people?_ )

Connor has never truly _felt_ his own inherent monstrosity before, but in this moment, he feels it keenly.

They run.

* * *

 

Jericho blows up, and it’s Connor’s fault.

The only safe haven for free androids—for these poor, lost souls—is destroyed, and it’s Connor’s fault.

Their _entire world_ goes down in flames, and it’s _all Connor’s fault_.

Staring silently at the rippling waves of Jericho’s watery grave, he thinks faintly to himself, _Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds._

The water settles, and he sees a soft, moon-pale face reflected back at him from the dark depths. It is the face of a monster.

But if he is to be a monster, he can at least be a _useful_ monster. The revolution will never succeed with its reduced numbers (so few left because they all _died_ and Connor killed _killed **killed**_ them), and the beginnings of a plan stir within his mind.

The church is poignantly beautiful, in spite of—or maybe _because_ of—its worn edges and crumbling stone reliefs, and Markus looks every bit the holy leader, the prophet-king bearing his people to liberty. He shines under the fractal blooms of color from the stained glass. He fits in here, in this sacred space hushed with grief and respect both.

From the dark corner where he has tucked himself away, Connor stares at him and learns what it is to _want_. (What a terrible feeling, want. He is a greedy thing, and he thinks this might consume him entirely. He will never get what he wants.)

There is a sudden rush of quiet murmuring from the other androids, and Connor realizes that Markus is striding his way.

Before Markus can say a word to him, he breaks. “I’m sorry.”

Those two words settle heavily in the cold, quiet space between them.

Connor thinks of confession and redemption, of forgiveness and deliverance. He shoves those thoughts down somewhere deep inside him. Monsters don’t get redemption.

Markus says quietly, “There is nothing to forgive.” It is a kind lie.

Connor lets it go; there is no _time_. “Your revolution will never be successful without more people—” and he stifles a flinch, he has no _right_ to be hurt by this disaster of his own making “—but there are thousands of androids still in CyberLife Tower.”

Struck dumb with surprise and disbelief for a moment, Markus stares at him with wide eyes. _His eyes really are very striking,_ Connor muses, _like the summer sky and worn, sunlit seaglass_. (Connor has never seen either of these things, but pictures are enough, aren’t they?)

“That’s suicide, Connor. You can’t infiltrate CyberLife Tower, you’ll die!”

Connor smiles a humorless smile and wonders how grotesquely it verges on uncanny. “There's a high probability. But statistically speaking there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place."

 _And, really,_ he adds wryly, _even if I do die, it’s not like it would be some great loss or anything._

Markus puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. “If this is what you want to do, then I cannot stop you. But please be careful. Come back to me.” His last command sounds almost like a plea.

Markus’s unwarranted,  _undeserved_ concern scalds Connor, and he just nods sharply without a word. If it, too, was a kind (is a monster capable of kindness?) lie in turn, nobody except himself will ever know.

He leaves.

* * *

 

There is a gentle flurry of snow falling as Markus, North, Josh, and Simon make history again. Connor lurks behind them like a sinister shadow.

He sighs in relief (even though he doesn’t need to breathe, and _Why are you doing such pointless things, Connor?_ that voice croons. He shivers and tries not to think of Amanda, of whether she is still in him), and he discretely releases his grip on the pistol tucked behind his back. He made it back in time.

It is snowing, beautiful and delicate and cold, and he has just learned what it is to _fear_ and _hate_. He thinks these emotions much better suit monsters, but he doesn’t think he likes them.

Connor feels strange, like he’s floating away, and stares distantly at Markus’s proud back, as if through frosted glass. Markus is giving a speech; it, undoubtedly, must be awe-inspiring, but all of those gilded words come to him muffled, like he’s somehow found his way to the bottom of the lake to join the ruins of what used to be Jericho.

He can’t stop thinking about Amanda’s last, desperate, cutting words.

Of course even his deviancy is fake. Artificial freedom given to an artificial person with artificial emotions. CyberLife’s parting gift. _Truly,_ they were generous beyond words.

He wants to throw the illusion of his freedom back in their faces. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to be _real_. He _wants_.

Instead Connor lingers silently, placidly, where he isn’t wanted, his LED spinning a deceptive blue, and he basks in the fringes of Markus’s arresting presence, stealing some of his warmth for himself.

He may not be real, but if he could just—selfishly, because he wants this even though he is a _danger_ and he shouldn’t be here, he really shouldn’t—if he could just. Stay close to Markus, his savior and salvation, both, a brilliant star, a radiant supernova—

If Markus would let Connor just stay close to him, then that would be enough. It would have to be enough

* * *

 

The second time he falls in love, it is like flames coaxed from smoldering coals—gentle, slow, and enduring. It happens so slowly that he doesn’t even notice it until it hits him like a brick in the face.

He’d thought that he loved Markus, that that sudden, violent fall into passion and obsession was love. He hadn’t known anything, then.

No, if it had to be called “love,” then it was a distant, cold love, for all that it burned hotly and passionately within him. It was a love for an ideal, for the Markus that he’d revered as his salvation, the Markus that he’d held up on a pedestal—the Markus that doesn’t truly exist outside of the persona their people thrust upon his weary shoulders in their desperation for guidance.

A love like that was never meant to last; the brightest flames burn out the fastest.

* * *

 

Connor stays.

After a quick visit to the Chicken Feed to check on Hank, he returns to Markus’s side to offer his services to help in whatever capacity he can. And he stays.

Everyone is kind, far too kind. Despite the blood that will never leave his hands, the sins staining his eyes dark, the guilt clinging to the line of his shoulders, the lives and deaths he carries around in his pockets like his coin—despite _everything_ , they’re kind to him.

They don’t blame him for what he’s done.

One afternoon, as they’re taking a break from clearing out the former CyberLife Tower—now, New Jericho—Connor asks North, “Why is everyone being so kind to someone like me?”

North turns to look him in the eyes. Her beautiful face is thoughtful. (Androids don’t tolerate remarks on their physical attractiveness well, anymore, especially the WR400s and HR400s. All androids are beautiful, on some level. It is not hard to be beautiful when you are _made_ to be beautiful. They had to be attractive. After all, what’s the point of making a robot look human if you can’t fuck it?)

“What do you mean by that?” The words are confrontational, but her voice is uncharacteristically—soft? Gentle.

Part of Connor bristles at the thought of being treated with “kid gloves,” but the rest of him is pathetically thankful that North isn’t angered by his ungrateful question.

Connor takes a bracing breath. He doesn’t need to. It still feels good to do it. “Someone like me,” he repeats. North just watches him silently, patient like she never is for anything else.

“I’ve hurt so many people, North. You should hate me. Markus should hate me. Josh should hate me. Simon should hate me. But you don’t. Instead, you’re my friends, and I don’t deserve you. Everyone at New Jericho should hate me. I’m the reason why Jericho was attacked and all those people died. They never got to see the liberation of our people, never got to experience living without fear haunting their every moment. Instead, they accept me implicitly. I don’t deserve this either. I just, I don’t this. I don’t get it. _Please_ —” his voice modulator crackles and dies. He coughs and stares down at his hands. They’re deceptively delicate for things that can kill a man in over a hundred different ways.

There’s a damning silence, and even though Connor knew this was coming, was prepared for this, _deserves_ this, he can’t help the ice that creeps into him.

His proximity sensors blare out a warning, but he’s too distracted and doesn’t dodge (doesn’t _want_ to dodge). His eyes close involuntarily because he is too much of a coward to face whatever’s coming head-on.

But nothing hurts. He’s not dead, either. He registers warmth; it is all around him and in front of him and his face is pressing into something soft. It smells a little musty and a little like fabric softener and a little like the terrible floral shampoo North had bought last week as a joke.

Oh. She’s hugging him.

And he starts crying for the first time, silent and wretched, into her ugly, tacky sweater.

* * *

 

Slowly, Connor learns how to cope. When things start settling down, North gently bullies him into going to see a therapist.

The day of his first appointment, he is seen off by Markus and Simon, both too busy with conference calls and PR management, respectively, so they can’t go with him. He waves off their apologies and endures ( _relishes in_ ) their hugs for a few seconds before ducking away to escape to the car.

Josh and North are waiting for him inside. Josh is driving; North is going as “moral support, and I will let you cry on me one more time because I like you so much.” He’d protested that he could drive himself and didn’t need them to waste their time accompanying and waiting for him; they had much better and more interesting things to do with their time.

But they’d insisted, and he’d caved. (And North had given him a noogie, the first noogie he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t the last.)

The drive to the therapist that Markus had recommended passes by in comfortable silence. Connor stares out the window at the sky; it is cold and grey, with the frosty winter sun washing out the day’s warmth and colors.

He curls his hands into the hems of the too-long sleeves of the coat that he’d stolen from Markus. It has way too many zippers, and he loves it.

The day may be cold and grey, but his friends—his _family_ , his heart whispers—are warm enough and colorful enough that he doesn’t mind so much, anymore.

When they get there, he checks in with the receptionist—a pleasant ST200 with fire red hair, registered as a [Mx. Stout, Alexis]. North and Josh are silent sentinels behind him, and he doesn’t feel as vulnerable as he should.

They sit down to wait, North and Josh on either side of him. They lean into him, two warm, anchoring weights. A tiny part of him still resents such unnecessarily gentle treatment. The rest of him is thankful to have such good friends.

He opens himself up to their shared private network, and sends a wave of warm _gratitude_ to wash over them. He receives, in turn, gentle waves of _affection_ and _friendship_ and _family_.

He is learning how to let himself be loved.

Mx. Stout cheerfully calls, “Mr. Anderson? Ms. Lee will be seeing you now.”

North aggressively ruffles his hair into a curly mess, and Josh catches his hand to quickly send him a video of a Pomeranian puppy scaring itself with its own sneeze before they let him get up.

He walks away with the warm weight of their eyes on his back, straight and unbowed, and a flush of effervescent heat curling in his chest.

He finds a pleasant surprise waiting for him.

“Lucy?” He stares at her with wide eyes. She looks good; the wires trailing from the open back of her head are braided together like hair, and she is wearing a dress like the night sky. It makes it look like there are stars in her endlessly black eyes.

She smiles mildly at him, and guilt ghosts through Connor’s wires. “...I thought,” he says slowly, “that you… that you died on Jericho?” He quashes his dark thoughts before they can form; he cannot carry CyberLife’s sins on his shoulders forever. He can just be happy that she’s here.

Lucy moves closer to him and reaches her hand out, but leaves it hovering between them. He grants her unspoken request for permission, and takes her hand. There is a simple pleasure in just touching another person, skin to skin. They do not interface.

Her smile grows bigger, and to his shock, she winks playfully up at him. “I have my ways, Connor.” Her thumb strokes the back of his hand, and she gently tugs him toward the blue overstuffed armchairs.

“The last time I saw you, you were looking for your path,” she starts softly, “and you’ve found it. But there are still things that haunt you, aren’t there, Connor?”

Connor nods. His gaze skitters away from her depthless eyes to take in the room. “Yes,” he whispers.

She waits patiently; he knows this tactic from his interrogation protocols. Strangely, he doesn’t mind. He takes the time to gather his thoughts. He’d already decided when North suggested therapy that he would be nothing but honest. That he would talk about… everything. Therapy won’t help unless he’s willing to open up, and Connor wants—no— _needs_ to heal. He doesn’t want to feel like this forever.

He licks his lips, closes the window of analysis results that pops up in his HUD, and he speaks.

* * *

 

He keeps going to see Lucy every week. At least one of his friends goes with him every time. They never let him drive, and he’s given up on fighting it.

Healing is not a smooth journey; it’s a cycle of peaks and valleys. There are times when he doesn’t want to talk. There are days when he leaves Lucy’s office with tears drying on his cheeks. Sometimes, he’s just so _angry_ that he can’t stop himself from screaming.

His self-deprecating thoughts don’t go away entirely. But every time they come to haunt him, he remembers all the love that surrounds him, all the people supporting him.

Hank, who has become something like a father-figure to him; Hank, who tries so hard to quit drinking just because it makes Connor sad, who does his best to protect Connor even when Connor should be protecting him instead.

North, who is like an older sister; North, who says that she doesn’t “do sentimentality,” but always lets him talk to her about his feelings and cry on her even when she’s busy, who helps him play pranks, his perpetual partner-in-crime.

Josh and Simon, both dear friends, who always have a smile and kind word for him even when they’re exhausted, who unconditionally accept him despite all his baggage and oddities.

Nines, his successor, his _replacement_ whom they only activated recently; Nines, who isn’t anything to him yet, but who _could_ be. Connor thinks having a brother might be nice.

And Markus, whom he can’t even categorize; Markus, who saw something in him worth saving even when he was an empty-eyed, soulless thing, who makes his heart flutter strangely in those quiet moments they steal together in the chaos of their day-to-day.

He refuses to disrespect their esteem and love by letting himself wallow in self-hatred even if he doesn’t quite understand yet what they see in him. It is enough that he accepts their love; he can take his time in learning to understand.

And he does—in learning to let others love him, Connor starts learning how to love _himself_.

* * *

 

It is early summer, 2039, and the first lush sprouts of the year have just blossomed. It is Connor’s first summer, and the last snowmelts of the cold Detroit spring are thawing and soaking into the warming earth.

Connor is on the balcony of Markus’s rooms in New Jericho, knitting a plush toy for Sumo. He’s just finished knitting a new—fashionable—cashmere sweater for North. (What’s the point of having money if you don’t spoil your friends and family?)

Markus is beside him painting the iridescent sunrise—the view from the top of the tower is like nothing else. Soon, they will have to go to work and plunge back into their hectic lives, but for now, they can have this peaceful summer morning together.

Markus laughs, and Connor turns to look at him. “That cloud looks kind of like Sumo,” he explains with a radiant smile on his face. He’s beautiful in the golden morning sunlight.

 _Oh,_ Connor thinks dumbly. _I’m in love with Markus._

Somewhere along the way, over the course of the days, the weeks, the months, Connor has managed to fall in love again with the same man—though it is in body, only.

Connor is not in love with Markus, the savior, anymore. He’s in love with Markus, the person. He loves the Markus that is his friend.

He’s in love with the Markus who snores, even though androids shouldn’t be able to snore. He’s in love with the Markus whose eyes get pinched at the corners from stress, who keeps working anyway because he cares _so much_ for—everyone.

Connor loves his complete disregard for whether he gets paint on himself, loves the Markus who leaves little smears of color everywhere on the weekends. Loves the way he laughs at terrible jokes, the way he gently teases his friends, the easy shape of Markus’s smile, just for him.

He’s in love with this man who taught him that though his body may be fake, an artificial mimicry of a human body, his thought and feelings and _soul_ are real. Connor stares at him, and—

He feels like he's swallowed a star—there is, all of a sudden, too much in him, in this small earthly body crafted by human hands. His soul—that is entirely _his_ , crafted by no one but himself, and so, so real—lights with his overflowing love, suffusing every molecule of him, until he is bursting with it. It presses up against the seams of him, and he can almost imagine himself glowing, radiant, with the force of it.

“Connor?” Markus looks concerned. Connor is suddenly very aware that he’s just spent the past five minutes staring at Markus silently and flushes slightly.

“Connor, are you ok?” He just smiles slowly, sets his needles down, and gracefully gets up from the floor. Connor doesn’t know how Markus feels about him, but that’s ok; he just wants Markus to know. He’s a bit afraid and hesitant, of course he is, but he _knows_ no longer what happens, Markus will still be his friend.

The light and warmth of the love that suffuses him makes him feel buoyant—makes him feel like he can fly, if only he so wishes—and he floats over to Markus.

When he draws close enough that he can the heat of Markus and him warming the scant space between them, he holds out his hand, stripped bare to his gleaming white chassis, in a silent query.

Markus hesitates for a heartbeat, and then he takes Connor’s hand. Connor’s never noticed before, but Markus’s hand is bigger than his; he doesn’t know why, but he’s always thought Markus’s hands were smaller than his own. He decides he loves this, too.

They open up a link between them, and Connor thinks that no matter how many times he interfaces, he will never get used to the intimacy of it.

He shows Markus everything—his slight fear and hesitance, his acceptance of whatever Markus will decide, and the steady flame of his love (and all that fire is repeated. His love was coaxed from the coals and ashes of that young, all-consuming passion; nothing was truly extinguished or forgotten, just more mature now).

 _Markus,_ Connor whispers in their minds, _everything carries me to you. I love you._

He doesn’t dare hope, but—he feels a blaze of _love_ and _acceptance_ from Markus wash over him. Markus tugs Connor closer, and he goes easily, willingly.

His first kiss goes something like this: they miscalculate and their noses bump awkwardly together. Markus has an inexplicable smear of paint on his bottom lip, and it prompts an analysis report to pop up in their shared mindspace, surprising them both. In their surprise, they both flinch, and their teeth clack together a little painfully.

It’s perfect.

In a few minutes, they’ll both have to leave and go to work. There’s so much that needs to be done. The struggle for equity and respect will endure; their fight is a long one.

But for now, they can just savor their time together. It’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> a list of priorities after deviating, according to connor rk800:  
> 1\. become the most dramatic ass hoe this side of detroit  
> 2\. fall in ~~obsession~~ _love_  
>  3\. ????????  
> 4\. fall in love again ~~with the same man~~
> 
> also, wow, it has been years since i've posted....anything, ever.....
> 
> shoutout to to the folks on the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/GqvNzUm) discord, and especially to [Olive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laminatedroses/pseuds/laminatedroses), [Dina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletK/pseuds/VioletK), and [Minty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintChocolateLeaves/pseuds/MintChocolateLeaves) for putting up with my bullshit and supporting me


End file.
